GhostLock
by AnnieJune19
Summary: John's reaction to Sherlock's return wasn't at all what the detective had in mind. Weeks go by without an explanation, and Sherlock is baffled. Will shattered mugs, dark laughter, and random confessions be enough clues for Sherlock to decode John's odd behavior? Based on the tumblr post.


Ghost!Lock

Written c. 2013

He wasn't like he was before. How could anyone be the same after watching their closest companion Fall from the top of a hospital? The irony of it.

Eyes darker, bags heavier. Conclusion: Hasn't been sleeping well the past two weeks...Or years, really. Crease by the mouth - clearly a facial cue of deep concern. Concern for what? Work? No. The state of the flat? Mildly tidy. Family member? Possible. Harry? Hasn't phoned her in quite some time, so it can't be a new problem. Girlfriend? Hasn't had one in even longer. Friend?

John's eyes widen ever so slightly as he stares at the table. I sit next to him, pretending to examine the slide under my microscope, while really examining John. He just sits there thinking, seemingly blank. I peek at him from the corner of my eye.

Then he closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and opens them again. He slowly turns towards me and starts to chuckle, darkly. I note a tiny pattern of mania in his breathing. I look up.

"What?" I ask.

"Ha - Nothing. Nothing, Sherlock, it's just absolutely nothing. Nothing real. Nothing really at all," John replies.

"Alright, fine," I say, irritated but curious. Inside joke? Unlikely. Sleep-deprived? More likely. I return to my slide. John gets up to get a cup of tea.

Ever since my return to 221B Baker Street two weeks ago, John has hardly reacted, which did not at all concur with my prediction of his emotional and physical response. I had anticipated a much more...violent, or even lengthy verbal reaction. I knocked on the door to the flat, John opened the door wide, looked me up and down, smiled, said, "Right then," and let me inside.

"John," I said cautiously, after narrowing my eyes in suspicion, "I know you must be surprised to see me here, but I can explain everything if you give me a chance. I've really - John?"

John had rested on the arm of his armchair, arms folded across his chest, just staring at me. He appeared to be calm - the linger of the first smile remained - but there was something deeper. Worry. Fear.

"What? Oh do go on, Sherlock," he said, "Please, _do_ tell me _all_ about how you survived that bloody jump off St. Bart's. I'd just _love_ to hear about it. What've you been up to the past two years? Hm? Playing rugby with the Duke of Wellington?"

"Well, you see -"

"You know what? It doesn't make a bit of difference. It's all just _crazy_. You're here now and that's _just_ what I needed. Won't you have a seat, mate? Would you like a cuppa? Biscuits?" John laughed to himself as he moved toward the kitchen.

"John, I'm trying to explain," I said. "I've really- If you'd only listen-"

"Not necessary," said John, waving his hands. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to bed." I stood in the kitchen for a moment, watching him go. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he shouted back, his voice cracking, "Welcome back from the dead!" And I was alone once more.

As the next morning arrived, John saw me, still awake, reorganizing the books I had left behind which had collected a significant amount of dust. He stopped in his tracks, hand still on the handle to the pantry.

"Oh, you're still here?" John forced out. He swallowed.

I returned his gaze, analyzing his posture. "Yes, of course."

"Right," he said, and started fixing himself some breakfast.

Over the next several days together, I would go about my business in the flat, usually involving the restructure of all the items and experiments John had scattered about in my absence, and John would always eye me warily. He had continued going into work, did the shopping (still for one, I noted), and always returned looking disappointed but resigned.

I would still occasionally try to breach the subject of the circumstances of my return, but John would always grunt, or shake his head, or simply leave the room altogether without a word.

However, every once and awhile, in the stony silence, he would make some sort of random statement, as though telling me everything he thought to tell me when I was dead. Some were obvious, or mildly secretive, but John seemed determined to reveal them.

"Lestrade missed you, you know."

"Yes, he's told me."

"Right, right...And Irene Adler, she's not dead. Did you know?"

"Of course." More silence.

"By the way, I kept your skull. He's in my room."

"So I noticed."

As time went on, the statements became more like confessions.

"I dated Molly once. We bumped into each other at Angelo's and ended up snogging in the park. She told me she couldn't handle it. It was only six months after you left."

"That's...interesting," I reply, not really wanting to know more. Why does he feel the need to tell me these things? Why now?

Two weeks from the initial return, still without asking for an explanation, John kept his distance from me.

As he padded into the kitchen, he saw me at the table hovering over the microscope.

"Fancy one as well?" he asked, as he poured himself some tea. I watched the tremor in his hands and heard the faint rattle of the cup.

"No, thankyou."

"No, ha, no of course not."

We kept eye contact. He didn't take a sip. Several beats passed.

"John, are you-"

 _Crash_. The cup John was holding had shattered in his grip. His right thumb was bleeding, but still, neither of us broke our gaze.

After a moment of silent dripping, John wordlessly threw the remaining shards of ceramic in the rubbish bin and began wiping his hand and the floors. He covered his eyes with his good hand and heaved a big sigh.

"Are you unhappy that I came back?" I asked abruptly.

Without looking up, John shook his head. He sighed again and said, "No one can see you the way that I can see you, right?"

Unsure how to respond, I decided to file and analyze that question for later. "Would you like me to leave?"

"Just, just tell me, Sherlock. What would happen if I touched you?" He gestured to my hand resting on the table. "Would you disappear?"

"Is that it?" I asked, finally feeling like I was beginning to understand. "You're afraid I'm going to leave again?"

"I'm also worried that you'll never go away."

"And why would that be a problem?" I stood up and carefully stuck out my hand for a shake. John opened his mouth as though to say something, then looks at my outstretched hand. His voice broke.

"No, I-I can't. I don't want you to go," he said. "Oh, God, I need help."

"Please, John. I don't understand," I pleaded. I retracted my hand. "I'm sorry that my return has been such a shock to you. I told you that I could explain everything. Why won't you touch me?"

"My imagination is better than I thought it was, but I don't think it could mimic that much," he said.

"What?"

The faint closing of the door downstairs halted John's reply. I sniffed the air to confirm. "Mrs. Hudson's back from her three-week visit to her sister's. She'll be up to check on you in about forty seconds. She hasn't seen me yet, as I've only been here for two, so do try and catch her if she faints."

"Right. I seriously doubt it," John muttered.

Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered with a quiet, "Yoo-hoo!" John stepped forward from the kitchen to greet her, and I followed in his shadow. "Oh, John! I'm so glad you're here. I'm back from - Oh, my dear, Sherlock!" She clutched her heart just as all the color drained from John's face.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson!" I said, and moved forward to put my arm around her. She dragged me down, put her arms around my neck and began to cry. John looked from me to Mrs. Hudson and back.

"No. No no no...This can't be...right," John took a few steps backward.

Releasing me, and with concern, Mrs. Hudson turned to John and said, "John dearie, what's the matter?"

Eyes wide, mouth agape, hands digging into fists on the back of his armchair, John almost shouted, " _You mean you can see him too_?"

The three of us stared at each other. Slow, so stupidly slow to realize, I breathed a small _oh_ in understanding.

Mrs. Hudson finally spoke, "Well, yes. Sherlock, he's...right, right here."

"You mean to say," the fire coming back to John's voice, "that you're actually alive? You-you're actually, really here?"

"You thought I was a hallucination." I state, stepping forward.

"But you're not, are you?"

"You thought I was some ghost induced by your PTSD."

"Just tell me that you're not."

"Mrs. Hudson can see me."

"Yes."

"You can see me."

"Yes."

"Well what do you think?"

"I think you're an arse."

"John, I'm here. I always w-"

John pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. He heaved such a sigh of relief that he seemed to melt into my arms. All the tension, the confusion, the desperation of the last few weeks subsided. Neither of us were the way we were before. For better or worse, we were at last reunited. At last we could be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson again.


End file.
